Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 13
‘What happened to you?’ she said. She could feel the bird’s little body trembling, and she tried to stretch her arms out in as unthreatening a way as possible. ‘Ssh, ssh.’
She could see from the light from the street that the bird’s wing was all twisted. It looked broken. She wondered what had happened, and then realised that it must have accidentally flown into the glass in the dark, and the glass must have been sufficiently weak to break. It had probably had a nasty bump on the head too, poor thing.
‘Come here, come here.’
The bird tried to flap away, but instantly squawked in pain and stopped. Continuing to make soothing noises, Polly gently picked up the little creature. She was temporarily worried she was going to give it a heart attack; she could feel its heart beating incredibly quickly in its chest.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘You know, I was absolutely more scared than you.’
She looked at the little thing.
‘Well, okay, maybe not quite as scared as you, but it was close.’
She glanced at the window. That would have to wait. She’d put some cardboard on it tomorrow, or tell the agents. Suddenly she was relieved she hadn’t phoned 999. Explaining that she had a poorly bird on her hands probably wouldn’t have gone down too well.
‘Well,’ she said, looking at it, ‘I don’t know much about puffins – I don’t know anything about puffins actually. I had no idea you could even fly – but I think you’d better come upstairs with me.’
Compared to the eerie deserted shop, upstairs, with the lights blazing and her familiar sofa and bed, seemed almost homely. She popped the kettle on out of habit, not feeling the least bit sleepy now, and pinned up a spare sheet over the front window to block out the sweeping lighthouse beam. Then she wrapped a towel round the puffin – his feathers were dense and soft; he must be a baby – and googled on her phone ‘how to fix a bird’s broken wing’. It suggested gauze tape, but since she only had packing tape from the move, that would have to do. The bird had stopped trying to flap itself free and was regarding her with its deep black eyes instead.
She taped the wing to its body, then cut some air holes in one of her packing boxes.
‘Bed,’ she said. ‘Bed for you.’
The website suggested cat food, which she also had none of, but she did have an emergency tin of tuna in her supplies box. She put a small dish of that and a saucer of water in front of the bird, who tried to waddle forward to inspect it, and promptly fell over.
Polly carefully righted him again. He looked at the two dishes, glanced at her fearfully – Polly found herself saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s fine’ – and then he started pecking at the fish. Polly found herself smiling as she watched him eat – partly out of relief at all the horrible things that could have gone bump in the night but hadn’t.
‘Okay,’ she said, after the bird seemed to have tired of the food. ‘I guess you’re going to be my flatmate for the night.’
She’d take him to the vet tomorrow – there must be somewhere that dealt with this kind of thing – but for now, she’d try him in the box. She put the towel underneath him – ‘Basically, bird,’ she told him, ‘you’re wearing a nappy, right? And no hopping on my sofa’ – and the box on top. She expected him to grumble at that, but he didn’t; perhaps it was a bit like a nest. Instead he fluttered a little, then went quiet.
Polly got back into bed, with the duvet doubled over and the rest of her towels on top of it. To her surprise, she fell asleep straight away, and didn’t stir till the seagulls started to bark at the return of the fishing boats on a bright and sunny April morning.
Chapter Seven
‘The good thing,’ said Polly the next morning as the little bird pecked away at the remains of the tuna, ‘is that I’m not going to get very attached to you or start giving you a name or anything.’
The puffin attempted another wobble, but fell over again. She helped him up. ‘No matter how amusing you think you are,’ she said. The puffin cawed a little.
‘I know. When you’re better, I’ll set you free and you can fly off and find your mummy and daddy, okay? Scout’s honour.’
She sighed. ‘I will say this for you, puffin. Talking to a bird is definitely a step up from talking to a sofa.’
As she drank her coffee, she watched the men unloading the fish on the harbour. There were people around the crates staring in and poking and prodding, and a man had already set up a little bench and was gutting the fish and selling some straight off a boat. Polly watched him, fascinated. He was so quick with the knife it was almost impossible to follow his fingers; he slit and gutted the fish like lightning. Several vans were parked up with the names of famous Cornish fish restaurants on the sides. So this was how it was done, she thought. She should probably head down and buy some; it seemed unlikely she’d get fresher. And perhaps the little puffin would like some too…
The men coming off the boats looked tired. It must be a long night, she thought, realising as she considered it that she’d never given the life of a fisherman the least thought at all. She was tired too. She went over to unpack one of the food boxes she’d brought. She’d cleared out the store cupboards at the flat in Plymouth. Once upon a time she wouldn’t have bothered to keep a mostly empty tin of salt, and two little packets of yeast.
The oven was absolutely black with filth – Polly sighed and mentally assigned herself another two hours’ hard labour – and was the old-fashioned kind that required a long match and a steady hand until the flame caught at the back. But the gas hissed reassuringly, startling the puffin, who had been practising walking with his bound-up wing, his claws clacking on the wooden floorboards. Polly glanced at her watch.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m going to do it. Then I’ll take you to the vet.’
The puffin tilted his head at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say vet.’
She clicked the kettle on to heat the water for the yeast, then moved the table by the chimney breast over to the kitchenette, to at least give herself the illusion of having a worktop. She shook some flour out on to the freshly cleaned surface. The puffin bustled over to see what she was up to, trying vainly to hop upwards.
‘No chance,’ she said. ‘You’re mucky, and I don’t want footprints in the flour.’
She could see from the light from the street that the bird’s wing was all twisted. It looked broken. She wondered what had happened, and then realised that it must have accidentally flown into the glass in the dark, and the glass must have been sufficiently weak to break. It had probably had a nasty bump on the head too, poor thing.
‘Come here, come here.’
The bird tried to flap away, but instantly squawked in pain and stopped. Continuing to make soothing noises, Polly gently picked up the little creature. She was temporarily worried she was going to give it a heart attack; she could feel its heart beating incredibly quickly in its chest.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘You know, I was absolutely more scared than you.’
She looked at the little thing.
‘Well, okay, maybe not quite as scared as you, but it was close.’
She glanced at the window. That would have to wait. She’d put some cardboard on it tomorrow, or tell the agents. Suddenly she was relieved she hadn’t phoned 999. Explaining that she had a poorly bird on her hands probably wouldn’t have gone down too well.
‘Well,’ she said, looking at it, ‘I don’t know much about puffins – I don’t know anything about puffins actually. I had no idea you could even fly – but I think you’d better come upstairs with me.’
Compared to the eerie deserted shop, upstairs, with the lights blazing and her familiar sofa and bed, seemed almost homely. She popped the kettle on out of habit, not feeling the least bit sleepy now, and pinned up a spare sheet over the front window to block out the sweeping lighthouse beam. Then she wrapped a towel round the puffin – his feathers were dense and soft; he must be a baby – and googled on her phone ‘how to fix a bird’s broken wing’. It suggested gauze tape, but since she only had packing tape from the move, that would have to do. The bird had stopped trying to flap itself free and was regarding her with its deep black eyes instead.
She taped the wing to its body, then cut some air holes in one of her packing boxes.
‘Bed,’ she said. ‘Bed for you.’
The website suggested cat food, which she also had none of, but she did have an emergency tin of tuna in her supplies box. She put a small dish of that and a saucer of water in front of the bird, who tried to waddle forward to inspect it, and promptly fell over.
Polly carefully righted him again. He looked at the two dishes, glanced at her fearfully – Polly found herself saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s fine’ – and then he started pecking at the fish. Polly found herself smiling as she watched him eat – partly out of relief at all the horrible things that could have gone bump in the night but hadn’t.
‘Okay,’ she said, after the bird seemed to have tired of the food. ‘I guess you’re going to be my flatmate for the night.’
She’d take him to the vet tomorrow – there must be somewhere that dealt with this kind of thing – but for now, she’d try him in the box. She put the towel underneath him – ‘Basically, bird,’ she told him, ‘you’re wearing a nappy, right? And no hopping on my sofa’ – and the box on top. She expected him to grumble at that, but he didn’t; perhaps it was a bit like a nest. Instead he fluttered a little, then went quiet.
Polly got back into bed, with the duvet doubled over and the rest of her towels on top of it. To her surprise, she fell asleep straight away, and didn’t stir till the seagulls started to bark at the return of the fishing boats on a bright and sunny April morning.
Chapter Seven
‘The good thing,’ said Polly the next morning as the little bird pecked away at the remains of the tuna, ‘is that I’m not going to get very attached to you or start giving you a name or anything.’
The puffin attempted another wobble, but fell over again. She helped him up. ‘No matter how amusing you think you are,’ she said. The puffin cawed a little.
‘I know. When you’re better, I’ll set you free and you can fly off and find your mummy and daddy, okay? Scout’s honour.’
She sighed. ‘I will say this for you, puffin. Talking to a bird is definitely a step up from talking to a sofa.’
As she drank her coffee, she watched the men unloading the fish on the harbour. There were people around the crates staring in and poking and prodding, and a man had already set up a little bench and was gutting the fish and selling some straight off a boat. Polly watched him, fascinated. He was so quick with the knife it was almost impossible to follow his fingers; he slit and gutted the fish like lightning. Several vans were parked up with the names of famous Cornish fish restaurants on the sides. So this was how it was done, she thought. She should probably head down and buy some; it seemed unlikely she’d get fresher. And perhaps the little puffin would like some too…
The men coming off the boats looked tired. It must be a long night, she thought, realising as she considered it that she’d never given the life of a fisherman the least thought at all. She was tired too. She went over to unpack one of the food boxes she’d brought. She’d cleared out the store cupboards at the flat in Plymouth. Once upon a time she wouldn’t have bothered to keep a mostly empty tin of salt, and two little packets of yeast.
The oven was absolutely black with filth – Polly sighed and mentally assigned herself another two hours’ hard labour – and was the old-fashioned kind that required a long match and a steady hand until the flame caught at the back. But the gas hissed reassuringly, startling the puffin, who had been practising walking with his bound-up wing, his claws clacking on the wooden floorboards. Polly glanced at her watch.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m going to do it. Then I’ll take you to the vet.’
The puffin tilted his head at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say vet.’
She clicked the kettle on to heat the water for the yeast, then moved the table by the chimney breast over to the kitchenette, to at least give herself the illusion of having a worktop. She shook some flour out on to the freshly cleaned surface. The puffin bustled over to see what she was up to, trying vainly to hop upwards.
‘No chance,’ she said. ‘You’re mucky, and I don’t want footprints in the flour.’
